Musings of her (and her scent)
by AllAboutThatHook
Summary: CS! Killian's thoughts while listening to Cora whisper into Aurora's heart. - He thinks of her, tries to stop, but then thinks of her again. And her scent. - Rated M for language.


_**Author's note: **__Hey there, dearies! This is my first fiction in OUaT fandom and I hope _(I haven't screwed up)_ you like it! And if the feedback is good I might add a second chapter writing his musings about their Cell Scene - deal? XD_

_**Disclaimer: **__I own nothing but my laptop. Sad._

-/-

Pale skin, alarmed green eyes, and pretty blonde hair. And a cup of water.

_Here you go_

Hook wasn't impressed.

After some blades pressed to his throat, his being tied to a tree and a show of sharp intelligence – _for Triton, she detected his lies!_ – she wasn't just a pretty face (and pretty hair) anymore.

_I'm pretty good at knowing when someone is lying to me_

And even when he gave his best at acting innocent, traumatized and scared, she bloody saw right through it, as though he was a bloody open book!

_You're not gonna guide us anywhere until you tell us who you really are_

She bested him. And no, it was not supposed to be funny when he said he can count the amount of people who've done that in one hand. Hook was not exaggerating, no. This Swan girl is the very _second_ who managed this feat; and if he takes the Crocodile off the list for reasons of fairness – being the Dark One and such –, she is the bloody first!

_What if he's telling the truth?_

_He's not_

So Hook realised she's _good_… and sexy.

When she grabbed his hair and pulled his head back against her torso a jolt of pleasure went straight to his groin. And Hook's not ashamed of it. He _does_ very much enjoy it rough, always has.

But, as they travelled, he started listening. Not because Cora told him to – he couldn't even remember what she had wanted exactly at the time (but even if he did remember, it wouldn't've mattered anymore since his loyalty had been lying with Swan's group) –, but because he was _curious_. After all, such closed-off woman with tremendous trust issues and eyes as lost as they are green whispering to her mother about this Henry person – how much she misses him, how much she's worried about him, how much she needs to get back to him, how she can't leave him again – is so contradictorily intriguing that he cannot think of much else; his thoughts somehow always sailing back to this Swan's devotion (And he knew right then that this Henry is her son. _No_ woman would be _this_ devoted to a man).

Hook concluded she is loyal.

When they finally arrived at the beanstalk, the captain allowed himself to finally feel antsy (although it's not the first time since they began travelling he worries about it). He could not climb and steal the compass alone – it would be suicide of the most moronic kind –, but he did not want anyone to accompany him if not Swan, and all visual signs were pointing painfully right at the foreign wench; sword expert, best weapon around, competent armory, and a warrior through and through. Hook was not impressed. So when he asked them to decide who was coming along as he paced around smirking to mask his anxiety, Hook religiously tried hard not to look much at the blondie, but she made it rather difficult.

Stupid, _stupid_ pretty long hair, he thinks begrudgingly.

Then he heard it.

_It's me. I'm going, and I'm _not_ gonna fail_

_If it's for getting back to Henry I don't care what I have to face_

His head snapped right to her. And he shifted his weight from a leg to the other, wishing to ward off that sudden admiration for the Savior. It is hard to come across this kind of love – it was already rare when he was a child, even rarer nowadays. Even those of motherly kind (he knows from experience). So watch her fervor made his heart swell with something he couldn't fathom even now, even if he _wanted_ to.

Hook was stricken.

His eyes glued to her never wavered from her form as she unzipped her coat cuff and made her way to him; hair swaying hypnotizingly behind her back, tempting him to pull it from behind her ears so it would frame her beautiful face… Blinking the thoughts away, he had opened his mouth to ask what the white bag the warrior gave her was, but –

_I was hoping it'd be you_

…

…

… And that was _NOT_ what he had meant to say. Much less with that bloody voice, in that bloody tone – so serious, unexpected, so… _sincere_. If she can detect lies, he didn't even want to know about truths; and now that he thinks about it, neither was a whole lot more that he had said.

_I would despair if you did_ – No he wouldn't… But he _liked_ the idea of her eyes on him.

_Have you ever been in love?_ – This one would've been considered inoffensive to him if only he hadn't been a tad interested in the answer.

_I don't mean to upset you, Emma, but I think we make quite the team_ – Pointless to deny it, they really do.

Or did.

_About bloody time_ – Oh, this one he meant alright. God, the weight, the feel of her! Still lingers on his arms, on his chest through his clothes. Her scent the most delicious fragrance he's ever smelled, could taste it on his tongue. And for Triton, her hair… The purest gold he's ever seen, putting any coin or golden goblet in that room too shame, tempting him. It ends brushed on his fingers and it was bloody all he could do not to fist a handful of it and pull, or comb through it with his fingers for hours to his heart's content.

Hook was impressed.

He's always been a scent-and-hair kind of man and revels in feeling a woman's locks between his fingers, in feeling it tickle his stomach as they ride him, in fisting it and holding while fucks them from behind just like he would hold a mare's mane. And he also loves scents, likes to name them. His favorite so far is his mother's (the angel of a woman who raised him and called him Killy, not his real one), a mixture of peach and herbs and plants. She used to own an apothecary in the first floor of her house and spend her mornings and afternoons there, so maybe that's why. In second comes his brother's – since he only met him when he was ten and his brother a Royal Navy officer the scent of salty water already clouded the real thing, but it was there – a musky scent quite unique that reminds him of sheets of paper. It had not taken long for him to associate this scent with home (especially because he _did_ start living in a ship). And in third of the three scents Hook cares to remember comes Milah's, fresh wool and candles, giving him the impression he could lie his head on her lap and breath. Finally _rest_. But it clashed with her free spirit, adventurous and agitated personality that was the furthest thing from 'rest' and soon her scent became only an addition to the feeling the sea gives him: freedom. Especially after months aboard the Jolly, the sea marring her scent with salt.

There were many a time he chose his bar wenches based simply on their tresses or on their aroma. Or both. And there was this once, when he was fresh out of the Navy and into piracy, that he heard of an extremely beautiful bar wench, one that every man with a pulse in town or port wanted a round with: tall, never-ending legs, shoulder-length curly red hair, big tits, skin as pale and soft as milk – so stunning that her employer had to establish a rule stating that she would be the one to pick her amount of men for the night, and different men every night. He decided to try her out, sure that she'd give him her six fucks by choice if he so wanted (which he did not. She may think he was handsome enough to earn her graces, but the thing is: he was _too_ _handsome_ for _her_ to get six times with him). Sure enough, he was the first man she smiled at and beckoned with her finger and it took her about five minutes to pick the next since she had problems looking away from him.

All was well until he got near her.

He could smell the fragrance of roses from an expensive brand of soap coming from her, but it was olfactorily obvious that her daily daytime occupation was at the butcher's shop. And he would be completely fine with that if it wasn't the stench of raw meat and animal blood coming off her, even if faint.

It must have been funny for the crowd to watch him seductively pacing his way to her and suddenly turn around and flee the bar as if fleeing the plague.

But there was this once too when Hook was beyond drunk – 'drunk' couldn't even begin to describe it. His head was chaos, making the least of senses and his sight was funny. And even then, he was gambling _and_ winning (don't ask him how). It was a good night. He was making money, had one beautiful, deliciously chubby woman in each arm and the rum was drinkable.

But a shadow fell upon him when someone – a woman, judging by the silhouette in his blurry vision when he looked up – almost violently invaded his table with a question and her body, producing a small breeze that hit him square on his face.

He remembers he was stunned silent for a moment. He remembers poking his tongue out in sensual appreciation as an excuse just to see if he could taste it _better_, just to taste it _more_. And remembers drinking (more) with her for a while before taking her back to his ship.

But he doesn't remember her scent. Or her. He was so drunk that it's a wonder he's still alive and he never cared naming scents of damn bar wenches.

Now… Emma's scent...

Absolutely not keen on Cora's witnessing his tender moment, the pirate peeks through his lashes at the old hag to check if she's looking at him – she isn't.

He lets himself lean back hard on the rock wall as his legs outstretch a bit, the weight of his musings being too much for them to bear, and covers his face with his hand, sighing heavily.

Oh God, her smell…

He always had something to describe scents. Peach and herbs, sea and fresh paper, wool and candles, you name it. But he surprisingly was at a loss concerning hers. Something like, like… ugh, _he doesn't bloody know_! Something like dew, but not quite. Like dew and cream, but he's not sure. No matter how much he racked his brain in ten hours, he always came up with a million options to describe it.

So, to ease his consciousness, he decided for now that Emma smells like Everything.

And he _**l-o-v-e-d**_ it…!

But he tried, he _did_! During those ten hours he was forced to wait at the top of that bloody beanstalk, Hook fought hard not to rank her scent to First Place. No one could ever hold it against him! Every bit of who he is revolted against it. Killy, who'll never forget his Ma; the Lieutenant, always living for Brother; and the Pirate Killian, who found life again in Milah – they all yelled, screamed and clawed at Captain Hook's insides because _how could he even think of her as First?! _She shouldn't even compete, she's no significant one like his mother or Liam or Milah; she's just a stranger, a nobody for him!

Just a broken outsider that is rudely banging and uncouthly kicking at his door, shouting her demands of entry at the top of her lungs non-stop since _Maybe I was, once_. But he _doesn't_ want to open that door. And he _won't_ open it.

He gulps, breathless. He really, _really_ wants to, though.

Hook is shaken.

There, he confesses: he acknowledges her. And acknowledging it has made him nervous. He dares say scared. Because even at right this moment – as he watches Cora preparing her speech while Aurora stumbles her way back to her group –, even after those goddamned ten hours and a day more he could still see in detailed slow motion that the moment her arm shot out to pull him to her is the exact moment he felt his Leelawadee earring change colour; going from empty-transparent to full, heavy ruby the second his chest collided with hers, the second he inhaled her scent, the second her hands fisted his vest to pull him closer.

He dares say it made him feel _terrified_.

But it made him _feel_.

And it had felt _**amazing**_!

When Hook fixed her hair on her shoulder with his namesake (he didn't trust himself to let go were him to use his hand), he knew he'd stay with her. It was an idea he was already highly considering for reasons of far safer company anyway, but she kept proving herself promising, presenting any motives more to follow _her_ in that old hag's stead… And have seeing how resourceful, bloody brilliant and amazing Swan was, follow her he would.

Until she chained him to the wall, that is.

Hook would have followed her. Helped her with passion to get her back to her boy in Storybrooke. Hell, he would've followed her there even if the Crocodile were somewhere else; the idea of taking some time off from the pursuing of his vengeance – like a vacation – not sounding _so_ bad if it meant he'd get to see her successful, to stay near her and keep _feeling_.

And damn it if he didn't feel – if he didn't dread – when his earring lost all its fullness in colour as his heart deflated once again as Emma turned her back on him and walked away even when her name echoed through the place from the depths of him. Once. Thrice.

_Just something new, darling – It's called 'trust'._

He trusted her, she had shown signs of being fair and by the time they were in the treasure room looking for the compass Hook had reached a point where the last thing he could expect from her was her deceiving.

Hook felt betrayed. He still does.

It angers him to no end, the fact that he feels this way just because a stranger tricked him. He should be mad at _her_, at Emma Stupid Swan, should put her name on the top of his list of Bitches No To Trust and forget her name and face in the next two hours, because he had better things to do, to think about. But no, of course not. Here he is, sulking over being left behind and _deep down understanding why she did it!_

_Bloody hell!_

The frustration is so great coursing through his veins like absinthe that he seriously considers banging his head on the wall just to see if he'd come up with answers to his questions. What the devil is it with this woman? What makes her so different from the other three that follow her? Sure, he can admit the attraction – to himself _only_ – she's pretty, after all, but so are the others! Just last week he was very much attracted to one of Bilgewater's dockside whores too!

_What in fucking hell is it that uniques her?_

The fact that he understands her?, he suddenly thinks. That he can read her like letters on scrolls? And that he liked what they tell him?

Swan carries herself upright, squared shoulders telling him she has pride, but her arms-length rule showing that it's not true pride. It's protection, one that most likely origins from her life as an orphan.

She's just a scared woman.

Understanding every little meaning behind every little word or look or gesture is what makes her different, is what gives the feeling that he has known Swan for centuries. And if he's not afraid to be honest, her scent too. She doesn't smell like anything he knows that has a scent, he can't name it and it is most frustrating! And yes, he knows these are dangerous waters, knows he shouldn't give a damn about her bloody smell, but he does! (maybe the reason why he's so intrigued is that he can't give it a name and when he can, it'll pass – one can hope) … So he closes his eyes and lets himself _feel_.

Pale skin, green eyes, hair made of gold and sun, kindred spirit like him, soft voice, devoted mother, tough lass, _I can't take a chance that I'm wrong about you_, dew, Saviour, cream–––

And first thing he does is sigh long and peacefully, feeling the three-century-old tension leave his muscles as they melt deliciously back into comfort. He feels like that he's inside his room and looks out of the window and see it's not time to rise yet and he can sleep more; no need to do anything, or to avenge anyone. He can _be_.

Killian smirks brokenly in his hand, having finally put his finger on it.

Morning.

She smells like morning to him.

Hook wants to laugh. But laugh mirthlessly. At life, at himself. Because the only thing in countless decades that looks, sounds, feels different and good is a traitorous, uptight princess (once more it's proven to him that royalty is all rotten). Could his life get any harder?

He feels Cora move and in half a second he transforms his pathetic, broken posture by the wall into a stylish, carefree pose, pretending to mind his hook. "Now, watch this, Captain.", she says. "Might add to your knowledge in using hearts since you already know how to take one."

Aye, he has seen how it's done before. He shivers. _'No, thank you.'_ "Indeed."

Cora looks to be listening to the conversation among the princesses, waiting for the best moment to take charge of it. The she hastily moistens her lips and starts "It was Hook. He let me go." A pause. And this pause makes him tingle; wondering what might be being said on the other side. "Because of you."

Killian tenses, his eyes darting murderously back to Cora who was her eyes fixed on the heart and a knowing smirk on her lips. He tenses even more. "He said he wanted to prove to you that you should've trusted him, that _if_ you'd trusted him you could've defeated Cora together, that the two of you could've gotten the remains of the wardrobe." He sees Cora smiling as though she were saying 'as if' and he swears he can feel his eyes burn and vision whitening with fury. "Without him, you'll have to go against her all by yourself – He only wants to help, I…" A _pregnant_ pause. And this one not only makes him tingle all over, but pours a bucket of freezing water on him, putting out his anger and turning his blood into ice. "Think he may care for you."

…

…

… His body flinches with the urgency to deny those outrageous words, but he stops himself. Because, well, he…

Oh… Well… _Fuck_.

When Cora finishes and glances at him, he smirks dangerously and open his mouth to _What the fuck was that?!_, but he's a survivor as he's always been and the fact that Cora somehow knows about his attraction to Emma and is _using it_ makes him feel threatened in a way he can only call crippling.

So his grin widens and he nods, hand picking at the point of his hook meaningfully. "Nice touch there."

She doesn't buy it. "But you know she won't trust you."

Hook is sure the hag wanted it to sound as an amicable warning, but he knows it is plain mockery. Salt to injury. "Why, she doesn't have to." He knows she won't… ever. "All I need is for her to–" _trust me_ "believe that I was genuine in letting the girl go, which I wager she does now. – You are welcome."

"Impressive," she compliments. "You took a heart."

Aye, he's seen how it's done before. He disguises his shivers by shrugging. "Now you've a princess."

"Indeed I do."

Good. Now that she's pleased he has to make sure Cora's going to take him along to get the compass (to battle Emma). He can't risk having this witch blabbering about what kind of attention he pays to the Saviour. It's obvious he would die feverously denying it, but still. "Now, can we get on the business going to Storybrooke? _Together_?" He hopes he hasn't growled.

The jurassic hag smiles. "Why not? I hate to travel alone." Then she glares. Challengingly. "All we need is the compass."

His blood boils at the threat, even if it's not aimed at him (even if he doesn't know why). What he _does_ knows is that she's trying to get a rise out of him and he's not about to give it to her. "Which soon will be delivered.", he murmurs instead of hissing as he turns around and walks away, feeling Cora's stare on the back os his head even minutes after he leaves the cave house.

Hook is not sure if he can trust Emma – what _ever_ happened to his Bitches Not To Trust list? –, but if there's one thing in this world the captain is sure of is that the same does not apply to this hideous wench.

Cora has to die.

Because if he were to choose who he prefers would accompany him to Storybrooke, it goes without saying that he'd choose Emma any day. Treacherous bitch that she is or not.

She still feels like morning to him.

-/-

**End note: **_Thank you for your time! Please review and let me know if you liked it!_


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